Rush

Down the front, people are shouting No! Most of them are wearing Saint Cyprian T-shirts. Some are yelling unintelligible things. Everyone’s wound the fuck up, and a grin slides over my face.

“I do. I have to say sorry.” I play a few notes on my guitar, choosing my words carefully. “You all know how it is. You put up with a lot of shit for yourself. I don’t care what people say about me. But these people—” I indicate the band and the people standing out of sight on the sides of the stage— “are my family. I don’t like people fucking with my family.”

A huge cheer goes up in response.

“You’re my people, too, you know that?” Most people are cheering, but I can hear some booing as well. “You Palatine people out there, I hear you. What I’m going to say isn’t for you. It’s an apology for one very special person. Striker, mate. I’m sorry.”

I lean away from the mic and slide my fingers through my hair. The lights are blazing down on my face.

Then I lean forward and put my lips against the mic. “I’m sorry you’re such a cunt.”

The crowd screams in shock and glee as I hit the chord that begins “Not Only” and the band comes to life around me. Up on the screens, the music video starts to play.

Some sets take on a life of their own. A wild animal that you can’t control, and you’d be unwise to even try.

Some sets there’s no coming back from.

Some sets change everything.

As the song ends, we keep playing the same chords in a low refrain. A new video plays, one that only me and the band knew was coming. Rough footage taken on Wes’ handicam at my place. He filmed hours of behind-the-scenes footage as we made the video. I turn and look up at it as I play.

Me and the band. The director and Dree. Dree choreographing the dancers. Me warming up and rehearsing.

Me and Dree.

A lot of me and Dree.

Wes caught so many intimate moments between the two of us when we thought people weren’t looking, or we were so lost in each other that we forgot to care. Touching each other. Looking at each other. Laughing like idiots over something. My stupid face staring at something across the room, only for Wes to turn the camera and reveal it’s Dree I’m looking at.

Always Dree.

On the screen, I kiss her as the rain falls down. She looks up at me with huge eyes as I say things that only she can hear.

I drag my eyes away from the sight and look to the side of the stage. Dree’s staring up at the screen, open-mouthed, a cup of beer held loosely in her hand. Everyone around her has the biggest smiles on their faces as they watch the video, but not her.

Finally, she turns to look at me. If she runs, I’ll leave this stage and just bring her right back.

I mouth the words, I love you.

Then I hold out my hand to her. Come on, baby. Come here, where everyone can see you. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.

Dree puts her cup of beer down. My heart lurches, certain she’s about to walk away and never speak to me again. I’ve exposed us. I’ve exposed everything.

She starts walking.

Toward me.

One foot in front of the other. Closer and closer. My hand drops from the mic. The whole world falls away as the woman I love crosses the stage.

I open my mouth, but before I can even think of anything to say, Dree comes up on her toes and kisses me.

I grin as her lips hit mine. I can’t help it.

That’s my girl.

That’s my fucking girl.

Still looking at her, I move my mouth closer to the mic. “You want to say hi to everyone, baby?”

Dree looks out across the crowd, her eyes wide. This is what I see every time I perform, and it never fails to put me on a high. It can be scary as fuck, though.

“Everyone, say hi to Dree!”

Glastonbury yells back, thousands of gleeful faces and happy voices. Dree lifts her arm and waves. My heart swells to ten times its size as I gaze down at her. No running away from now on, babygirl. Only running to me.

I kiss her forehead, and as she hurries off stage with a last smile at me, the band launches into a reprisal of “Not Only” and the crowd goes nuts. Finally, I’m unslinging my guitar from around my shoulders, giving the peace sign to the crowd and jogging off stage, my whole body buzzing with the need to see Dree.

A couple of music journalists with cameras and mics approach me, but I push past them. There are several men in uniform standing at the side of the stage and I search among them for my girl. I find her as her eyes meet mine, huge and anguished. My belly swoops, and I automatically look for Striker, certain he’s done something to her again.